


The Bumblebee Flies Anyway

by Aishuu



Category: Princess Tutu
Genre: Ballet, Fairy Tale Logic, Gen, Male Friendship, Prequel, bring your own slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-12
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-12 02:49:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3340793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aishuu/pseuds/Aishuu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prince needs a knight, and Fakir is determined to protect Mytho from himself. A prequel to the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bumblebee Flies Anyway

**Author's Note:**

> Another old fic. In the original fansub, the fansubbers translated Mytho's name as Mute. It's played off in this fic.

When he met the prince, he was nothing. 

Fakir always knew that he had a destiny, even though he wasn’t sure what that meant. When he was little, he had known that he was meant for Great Things, but that always seemed so far away. Then he met Mytho.

Mytho was white and pale, and utterly empty. Fakir may have been nothing, but it was better than being like the fallen prince, who had once been something, and lost everything. His eyes were empty except a dull blankness, a terrible innocence. Without emotion, Mytho had no concept of right and wrong. He would do whatever anyone told him because he had no motivation. 

That became Fakir’s duty. He was a knight, a noble knight, and his duty was to be what Mytho needed. He became Mytho's conscience, since the prince had none. It was what Mytho asked of him, even though Mytho wasn’t aware that he was asking. He was Mytho, after all - but that didn’t matter. Few people pronounced it right. It always sounded like Mute.

Fakir liked that better. Mute rarely said anything, so Fakir made sure that was what people thought Mytho’s real name was. It was good protection. There was power in names, and any power he could grab was well-worth taking. If the monster raven ever decided to attack, Mytho would be woefully ill-prepared. After all, what was a noble prince without a heart?

* * *

Mute’s heart didn’t beat. 

It was a secret that only Fakir’s family and Rue knew. Fakir remembered the horror he had felt when he realized that inside of Mute’s chest, no life pulsed. Mute really was a character out of a story book, the remnants of a prince who had given up everything to defeat his foe.

But without his heart, there was no passion.

The first week after his arrival, Mytho just sat on the bed, staring at nothing. It was creepy, and Fakir still hadn’t adjusted to his presence. Charon, though, the calmly rational man, handled everything in stride. “Fakir, are you going to practice today?” he asked on the eighth day.

Fakir had been sitting in a corner, staring at Mute, who merely regarded him with blank eyes. The golden eyes that should have been warm reflected nothing but Fakir’s own reflection.

“I don’t need to. I need to stay and protect Mute, as his knight,” Fakir said.

Charon shook his head. “You can’t just spend your life protecting him. There has to be something else, for both you and him. Take him out to the field, and he can watch,” Charon said.

Fakir sighed, but rose to his feet, before holding out his hand to Mute. “Come on.” Mute didn’t even bother asking where they were going, but responded blindly, taking Fakir’s hands in his own.

They were still young enough that two boys holding hands didn’t attract attention, which was a good thing. Mute needed to be led, since he didn’t seem to have any concept of direction. Still, it was weird to spend so much time with someone who didn’t care about anything, who would let himself be led or commanded, simply because he had no preferences on the way things should be.

Mute had no personality, period.

Fakir hadn't intended to take Mute to the meadow, but that's where they found themselves. The mid-summer grass had recently been trimmed, the trimmings scattered carelessly over the otherwise perfect green surface. The scent reminded Fakir of summer and freedom, and he found a convenient rock to stretch out on, realizing how taxing Mute's presence was. He wanted to protect him, but sometimes Mute seemed to need a constant watch.

He knew, as soon as he heard the sound of a bee, that Mute would inevitably be stung. He glanced around, trying to locate the insect and kill it before it found Mute.

It was too late. The bee found Mute's skin, and Fakir found himself helpless. Mute merely stared as the bee sat on the back of his palm. Amazingly, it didn't seem inclined to actually sting him. Fakir held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. 

Mute moved his hand, staring at the bee with flat golden eyes. His clinical look was that of a scientist, but there was still gentleness in his face. He was a shadow of his former self, a shadow of someone who had once been the best in humanity. 

The bee and Mute stared at each other for several long moments before the insect finally decided to move along. Fakir let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding. "Mute, you should be careful," he said.

Mute turned his head slightly, tilting it in a manner that could have been interpreted as curiosity, if only Fakir hadn't known any better. "Why?" he asked, the dead tone of his voice sounding like a flat bell.

"Because it can hurt you," he replied, trying not to feel frustrated. How could you explain pain to someone who had no emotional reactions?

"Why would it do that?" Mute still didn't sound that interested, blinking dull golden eyes as he stared at the bee.

"Because it's a bee's nature to sting," Fakir said softly. "All creatures must be true to their natures."

"But if it stings me, it will die," Mute said, surprising Fakir.

"But it will have accomplished its purpose to protect its hive," Fakir said finally. "Everything in life plays a role." He knew that, and he feared his more than anything.

"Oh." Mute was perfectively accepting in his own unique fashion. The bee lifted itself, swirling around Mute's head, and Fakir couldn't stand it anymore. With a quick flick of his wrist, he killed the troublesome insect.

“I’m your knight. I’ll protect you,” Fakir vowed.

Mute didn't reply, instead staring at the messy remains in Fakir's hand.

* * *

Hands down, the place to go was to the dance academy, located at the edge of town. The school rarely put on performances, but its students were legendary. All of them moved with the grace of trained professionals, and often people would stop on the street when a group of students passed, amazed by their unintentional grace.

Fakir had always wanted to attend the academy, but his new duty to Mute tore at him. He couldn't leave his prince, no matter what else he may have desired.

Charon recognized Fakir's dilemma easily. He hadn't been fond of the idea of Fakir becoming a dancer, but anything would be better than the current quagmire Fakir was allowing himself to sink into.

"Why don't you see if Mute would like to audition with you?" he asked.

Fakir couldn't find an argument against that, so agreed quietly. The question, in his mind, was if Mute would have any clue how to dance. Dancing was about self-expression, and Mute had no self left to express.

The sensei who conducted their auditions was a melodramatic creature that managed to rub something in Fakir the wrong way. Neko-sensei may once have been a great performer, but it was hard to remember when he started to rant off-topic.

"You're still too young to get married, of course, but dancing will help you meet a good mate," Neko-sensei concluded at the end of an amazingly long introductory speech. "Of course, the school only accepts the best dancers, and the ones with the most potential."

He motioned for Fakir to move into the center of the room. "Show me what you can do."

"Can I warm-up first?" he asked, and his request was meant with an approving yes.

He stretched slowly, feeling the familiar pull as his muscles sprang to action. He liked dancing, it was something he could do physically, and for him, didn't require much thought. Like most good dancers, he drilled himself extensively so that body memory would take over.

Neko-sensei stood beside Mute, commenting to the pale boy in a low voice. Fakir pushed curiosity from his mind, knowing that complete concentration was the only thing that would help him now. Moving carefully to the center of the room, Fakir shut his eyes, deciding what to perform. The pianist sat with his feathers lingering over the keys, waiting for direction. 

"Tchaikovsky," he said. "Anything at all."

It felt good to move to the music, extending his body in a series of powerful movements. His dance concentrated on strength, on his pride and his skill. He wanted to do this. He wanted this, almost as much as he wanted to keep Mute safe. It wasn't a flawless performance, but he acquitted himself well, finally coming to a halt as the suite swept to its conclusion. He was breathing a bit heavier than usually, but felt invigorated.

"Thank you, Fakir-kun," Neko-sensei said. His voice sounded like a purr, and Fakir knew he'd won admittance. "Would you dance, now, Mute-kun?"

The boy didn't voice any affirmative, but moved to take a place in the center of the room. "Any preference on music?" the pianist called.

Mute shook his head, and Fakir wondered if this was such a good idea. What would he do, if he gained acceptance, and Mute was rejected? "Play something from Swan Lake," Fakir said after Neko-sensei raised his whiskers. "He's shy," he murmured as an aside.

Neko-sensei accepted that, his tail curling around his back. "He'll learn," he said right before the pianist hit the first notes.

The music was slow and grand, and Mute began to move. Fakir's jaw nearly dropped as he watched Mute dance. His hands glided through the motions, moving with precision and grace that was nearly obscene. His feet touched the ground, but didn't really _connect_ , suddenly untethered from minor concerns such as gravity and reality. It wasn't surprising - the day Fakir and Mute met, Fakir had learned that reality was fraying around the edges.

It was worth it, though, to watch this dance. Fakir had read of birds taking flight, and Mute reminded him of nothing so much as a wounded swan. There was a terrible beauty in him, like something missing and the answer would forever be hung in limbo. If Mute had a heart, it would have been breaking. Since he didn't, Fakir's broke instead.


End file.
